


Recurring

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Changing Tenses, F/M, Nightmares, Sleeping Together, sleep paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7011874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All nightmares are based on the fear of being able to do too little or too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recurring

The dream always starts the same way – and the details are always crisp, vivid and clear, because he can remember them.

It's night. The air is cool and the stench of London is as sordid as ever, but the moon is out. Full, bright, promising all sorts of life and casting the streets into something ethereal; each rooftop becomes lined with silver, each steeple touched by God. It could be considered beautiful, if one were to concern themselves with such things as beauty.

William has come for the murderer.

He hasn't found them, yet. Hasn't reached his destination; the tiles of innumerable rooftops seem to slip under his feet, his shadow stretching miles across the ground below. But if anyone is out and about on the streets at this hour they do not see him: he is just another figment on the night air.

He knows where he is going, of course. The journey has long been mapped – the last murder has already occurred, in Whitechapel, and even though this time the victim is terminated by the human half of the problem, it doesn't matter. Jack the Ripper has already made the fatal error, and after tonight he will not walk free upon the streets of London. After tonight his mask will be torn from him, pretences dropped, and the reaper playing Ripper will be dealt with accordingly.

_If you judge the criminal to be liable to harm you, you are given clearance to eliminate the threat by whatever means necessary._

It won't come to that. The Ripper is interested in whores, not his colleagues – William is certain of that. Once caught he may come quietly or he may flee, but the chances of a struggle are low.

When he does eventually reach the rooftop above the corpse of Mary Jane Kelly – her soul still clattering up into the night, unchecked until he claims it - a fight is already in motion. It's a fluid, fast thing; it would almost have been impressive to witness had William not recognised the main antagonist in the pair. His eyes close in absolute consternation, and he swears very quietly. Grell Sutcliff is not supposed to be here. She was ordered to stay away, but of course she couldn't resist a fight, couldn't resist the chance to-

The party currently slashing at her is not the Ripper. The wind has changed direction, and William is suddenly fully aware that Grell is attacking a demon.

And yet the Ripper is here – he must be. Dalles is here, her own struggle occurring more quietly in the shadows with a boy half her size – the nephew that Grell has mentioned once or twice. The nephew in contract with the demon that she seems to be struggling to kill because he isn't paying full attention to her, and thus isn't making the aggressive attacks that she has always come into her own against.

So where is the Ripper?

Had he not seen several of the reels he would be able to believe that the monster had fled the scene. Had he not seen the bare, raw brand of loyalty that wove Red and her aide together, their mutual bloodlust and sating of it, he could have believed that a tactical retreat had been made; that the Ripper had known that he would be pulled in if he attended the murder tonight.

If only the demon hadn't intervened. That would make everything-

The scene changes abruptly, faster than any human eye would have been able to follow. Red brings down a knife. Grell catches the demon in her blade, but he ignores the wound and blots out the space behind Red – the child shouts -

And everything goes still. Just for a moment. The knife clatters to the ground; the demon steps back, and Grell integrates herself into the scene as naturally as though she has been in on it from the start, because Grell Sutcliff is the twisted half of Jack the Ripper, and always has been.

Nothing is right anymore.

William can't hear the words that are spoken between the four of them – he is too far away, has always been too distant to stop Grell from doing rash things. She has tied herself to Dalles and Dalles has been defeated, through some indiscernible feat, and he can't see how she is going to escape this one. She cannot jump away, not without abandoning Red, and it's obvious that any further attacks to the demon or his charge will only end in a stalemate. There is only one course of action left to take; William must intervene. He intends to pick up Grell and leave Dalles to be dealt with in her own time, through whatever means the humans decide to take. Grell will be punished, yes – her actions have been inexcusable – but she has been acting under the influence of someone she loves, and William finds that he can almost forgive that. He has known for too long now that, when the mood takes her, Grell can be easily led.

The exact words that Grell says then are inaudible, but the spite and dislike in them is obvious, and William, too late, only begins to move when the chainsaw fires up and can only watch as Grell drives her scythe through the chest of her counterpart, her partner, disgust on her face and an absolute dead nonchalance in the movements. The Ripper wears no guise as he claims his last victim. He doesn't have to.

For the first time in his life William is forced to see Grell as a threat.

She leans over the body, rips the red coat from the corpse's shoulders, and says something else in that same bitter tone. And then she turns, making to walk away, and the boy and his demon _do nothing to stop her._

_But she must be stopped. She must, because Grell Sutcliff is no longer anything but the Ripper; she will no longer be confined to taking prostitutes as her victims, no longer bound by any form of loyalty at all. So William leaps down onto the street, landing almost silently behind her – he feels the demon tense, and Grell stops, begins to turn – he sees the grin before the rest of her face; she says, “I was going to let you off, but-”_

_And William puts his scythe through her chest._

He feels the impact as the blades punch through her body; feels the sudden lack of resistance as they break free from her flesh though the other side of her. It's lodged clean through her chest; perhaps he has pierced her heart.

Everything slows. Grell continues turning, her momentum carrying her further; when her eyes find him her whole face dissolves into shock. And then she stumbles, scrabbles uselessly at the pole that has impaled her, an complete confusion written across her as she falls. William darts forward, catches her arms – he will not allow the demon the pleasure of seeing her drop to the ground like some common corpse, like Dalles had – and lowers her down. She's trying to speak, her mouth moving piteously, trying so hard not to spit up her own blood to join Dalles' on her face. Her hand grasps at his shoulder, his neck, his face; struggling not to push him away but just to convey some illegitimate form of affection.

She manages to mutter his name, just. And with this success she smiles, as though everything makes sense, and breathes, “You came back for me.”

She speaks the words as though they are the single most beautiful, welcome truth in the universe, begins to cough, to shake, trembling in his arms whilst grinning at him - not the mad leer of a monster, but the blind delight that she had worn when they passed their exam, or on the occasions that he had been kind enough to her to cause any form of joy, or _the first time that he asked her to dinner, or the morning after they had failed to make love -_

Grell Sutcliff dies in his arms, by his blade, and he is not permitted to weep.

Behind him, far in the irrelevant past, someone begins to clap slowly and the demon's snide voice says “Bravo. Oh, bravo. Who would have thought that the shinigami would actually turn up to take out their own trash?”

William can't pay attention to him – he _can't_ \- because Grell's record is spilling out from her, all out of order, winding sequences of explanations twisting almost coyly around him, showing him the heart of her – the bitterness, the longing only for understanding, recognition, affection – not bloodlust for the sake of bloodlust but the desire to hurt someone else as all the world had always hurt her – not love for Angelina but self-hatred reflected away, deepened by the actions of the woman that Grell should have been, and the snuffing out of that life marking the death of every desire to do anything but go home, go back to her job, and seek nothing but affection once again.

And he understands her.

There is nothing to do but take her corpse in his arms, _lift her as though his own misunderstanding is not guilty of having taken her life, cradle what remains of her close to him as he -_

-startled awake at the feeling of someone else's hand on his shoulder, horrified to find his face wet with tears and his throat hoarse. Grell was staring at him, her eyes bright in the darkness, murmuring reassurances as she stroked his arm.

“It was just a dream, Will,” she breathed, putting one hand to his face as though she could banish the wretched, panicked emotion that swamped him. “It's okay. It's alright, it'll be alright, it wasn't real; just a dream.”

He pulled her close, holding her as fiercely as he could, well aware that the only thing that she had ever needed protecting from was himself.

Grell never asked what his nightmares were about.

* * *

The dream has a thousand beginnings, and is never quite recognisable as itself at first. Sometimes it meanders, tipping and moving through sequences as though attempting to stretch the night – and other times it seems over in seconds, so brief after she falls asleep.

Tonight it's bright. There's sunshine, stronger than anything that the British isles can usually lay claim to, and an expanse of grass cordoned off by fence posts. A field, then, although beyond its boundaries the terrain is indistinct. The air smells of summer.

Grell is sitting on the fence – it's a little precarious but not quite uncomfortable, her legs entwined in the bars to steady her and leave her arms free. The slight breeze plays through her hair, keeps her cool enough that the sun seems no threat.

The field is occupied by a pair of jet black stags, and although Grell is no expert on wildlife she knows enough to recognise that this is not particularly normal. The two creatures are huge but strangely elegant; their movements are closer a dance than a rut, circling around each other, sizing one another up. One of them is a twelve pointer; the other eight. Clearly the former is older, and indeed having realised that she also sees that he is slightly larger, slightly more sly in his passes. They're gaining momentum as they go on; moving past one another in an anti-parallel line more briskly each time, tossing their heads.

They wheel apart, eye one another, and then charge.

The two come together, clash in a jarring clatter of horns and heavy breaths, bellow at one another with deep, nightmarish voices. They're swinging their heads again, violently, each trying to bypass the other's antlers in order to score the crippling strike. It's exhausting to watch – Grell can see viscous desperation in both animals, the flecks of foam around their mouths, the sweat on their sides. Their chests are heaving, their bright eyes are wild, and they slash and bark at one another until one tine catches at the younger and the older, seeing the opportunity, throws his head and rips though the hide before pulling back as the victim stumbles.

Of course, they aren't deer. They've never been deer: there's a demon standing almost nonchalant, a slew of cutlery between his fingers, and a reaper half kneeling before him, gasping slightly, hand pressed close against the knife in his ribs.

It is only a knife. William's scythe is on the ground beside him, and his recovery is only hindered a little by Sebastian's next onslaught of attacks. Sebastian has far more versatility in his arsenal but William has the advantage of control – and a weapon designed for his use. Sebastian is older, more experienced, more vicious, but he'll be hard-pressed to do damage to a reaper with kitchen utensils.

Will rises, lashes out – Sebastian blocks the attack and retaliates immediately, hurling the cutlery with far too much force to allow the choice of attack to seem ridiculous. They are all at once far too close to one another and too far apart; both are at risk of suffering injury with one misstep but neither can quite overpower the other, nor slow the attacks. The demon's voice is audible, light on the air, curling around his opponent with a smug mockery in its tone. The reaper speaks very little, but when he does it's an answering curse.

They encircle one another, sharp eyes keeping close watch on weaknesses – Sebastian is clearly unaccustomed to fighting an opponent so calm, and William's injuries are slowing him down. They're well-matched for one another; their techniques are almost complementary. 

But suddenly Sebastian has the upper hand and it's not a game anymore. A fork sinks deep into William's leg, hobbling him for enough time that the demon is upon him, tearing his scythe away and catching him by the hair. The reaper shouts, a wordless expulsion rooted either in anger or pain, and Grell finally recognises how much danger he is in. She has to save him – so she tries to throw herself forward, tackle Sebastian head-on -

And finds herself stuck.

She can't move; the bars have entwined themselves about her legs; the air is too thick to push through. Attempting to shout, to cry out, is futile and piteous. But she tries and tries and tries nonetheless, clawing pathetically at the air, throwing silent letters from her lips. The universe ignores her.

Sebastian looks up suddenly, as though he has heard something – and stares right at Grell. He's still for a moment, and Will startles, a semblance of hope lighting his face. He starts to say her name even as Sebastian smiles beautifully, yanks the reaper's head up and in one graceful motion flicks a knife through his forehead, scalping him.

Grell always woke at this point, and tonight was no exception. Her heart raced, hammering at her throat, but she couldn't draw breath – couldn't move at all. As though frozen in limbo she simply lay there, existing, blind and alone until the tension in her body eased and she had control of herself again.

The first irrational, fearful thing that she did was always to check on Will.

He was fine, of course. Asleep beside her, that odd serenity that seemed sometimes to grace him on his face, breathing in, out in a slow rhythm. With no idea how frantic she had been, no idea that she was in any state of unrest. Well, why should he be aware? He had enough nightmares of his own. Whether nastier than hers she wouldn't care to bet, but they certainly had a worse effect on him; made him thrash, moan, sometimes cry out as though in great distress before she managed to wake him. It was still strange to see so stoic a man moved by little more than unpleasant thoughts, but then again they had both seen more than enough disquieting things over the courses of their lives to merit distress, especially at night. People were more vulnerable in sleep.

Grell sighed to herself, careful not to wake him, and edged herself slowly closer to him until her hands brushed his, until his warmth alone could assure her of his safety – at which point he did stir slightly, murmuring something indistinct before his sleepy arm found her waist. A reassuring weight. 

Her inarticulate fears were grounded in nothing tangible, she knew; William would never be so stupid as to attempt to take out any demon alone, and the likelihood of either of them actively trying to kill the other was low. No, the scenario that her restless mind brought forth would never come to fruition. It didn't have to. All that had to happen was one mistake, one miscalculation, and any vestige of inaction from herself.

But here and now he was close to her, and she could keep him safe.

**Author's Note:**

> The fighting's a bit clunky, I think? And changing from present to past tense is never exactly perfect -thoughts?


End file.
